


How We'll Get Home

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out on a recruiting mission, Daryl finally opens up about Beth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We'll Get Home

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get these cuties out of my head.
> 
> Not slash, but it can be read that way.
> 
> Thanks to Mary as always :)

They're sitting on opposite sides of the campfire, not speaking.

It's so familiar a scene that Daryl aches.

He roots around in his tin of tuna, trying, as always, to drag his thoughts away from her; and wanting, as always, to hold on the tighter.

He knows what she would say to him: All this holding on ain't healthy. It ain't good. It doesn't honor her memory any more than Maggie's moving on cheapens it. And he envies Maggie for it—the way she can smile again. Not that he ever smiled much; but like so much else, with her, he found himself wanting to.

He needs to let her go. But since that first time she twined her fingers through his, he's found his hand has forgotten how.

There's a rustling and he looks up to see Aaron grabbing his pack, moving around the fire and re-situating himself next to Daryl. He doesn't say anything. Just sits there, eating his own tuna, mouth making quiet smacking noises that echo in the silent forest. As he relaxes his shoulder presses up against Daryl's; not a press, more like a touch, the casual brush of two people who know each other well.

They don't know each other well.

Not that Daryl would know what that feels like, knowing someone.

He almost knew; he almost got it. But like so much else it's been left undone.

Daryl thinks he should mind, Aaron's arm touching his, but he doesn't. He should mind, but after a lifetime of avoiding touch he's suddenly found himself starved for it; has looked at Rick and Carol and Michonne and begged with his eyes for a hand on the arm or a bump with the shoulder. They never understand; never really look, not that he expects them to, with all their own demons, all their ghosts. But it hurts, sometimes, a physical ache in his stomach when he sees Glenn wrap his arms around Maggie's waist or Carl kiss Judith's head.

He's never wanted touch in his life, but now he's suffocating in the need, drowning in it; all the little touches he saved for her, spilling across his skin.

“You look so glum I thought I'd keep you company. That ok?”

Daryl grunts.

He looks up and across the fire sees her raised eyebrow and the smirk on her lips and _use your words, Daryl._

“Yeah. S'alright,” Daryl mumbles, flushing at her smile.

He holds his breath until she goes away.

“I've been meaning to tell you something,” Aaron says, in that low, quiet way he has. “Thought I'd wait till we were out here, where you're more comfortable.”

Daryl grunts again, and hears her sigh. He looks deep into his tuna, stomach rebelling against the thought of another bite.

“Shoot,” he says.

Aaron's looking into the fire when he says it; Daryl knows because he's watching him out of the corner of his eye, curious despite himself.

He isn't looking at Daryl when he says it, and that makes it easier.

“Whoever you lost—you can talk to me about them. Might make you feel better.”

“Lost lots of people,” Daryl mutters.

“Yeah.” Something in Aaron's tone makes Daryl look at him, and when he does he wishes he hadn't. He doesn't know what to do when people look at him like this; like they're ready to give without taking back. “But this one was different.”

Daryl looks back to his food; with an exasperated sigh, he tosses it down. It bounces once before settling in the dirt, reflecting the firelight into his eyes.

“Don't wanna talk about it,” he mutters.

“Alright,” Aaron says.

And that's the end of it. Aaron turns to the fire and leaves him be, like he really doesn't mind Daryl not saying anything. Like it's enough for him to be here in the woods with a body beside him, taking in the fire's warmth, giving off its own.

And Daryl thinks. He doesn't want to think; not like this, not in the dark, not with the woods cold and close and brimming with ghosts.

It's easier, in that sense, inside the walls. To have a place where he can learn every turn, illuminate every corner, flood the land with light and glare and know there's nothing hiding. But here... here it makes sense. It's possible. In the dark with only the moon and the fire and the phantoms in his head he can see deer-like limbs dancing between the trees, blue eyes teasing him from behind the trunks, blonde hair caught on branches and fluttering in the breeze like spider webs.

He could lose himself out here.

“Her name was Beth,” he says. He feels Aaron's eyes on his face, this time. Feels him watching him, the soft implorement of his gaze asking for more, more. To find the colors of her, the way her limbs swayed, the shape of her face in the rain and the sun and in rage and in rest, the blood as it moved beneath her skin. Enough to sketch her back to life. Enough to breathe beauty like a painting, like a tapestry. To sing a masterpiece.

“Her name was Beth,” Daryl says. “She was my... I was hers. That's all.”

And then he's crying. Sitting there with tuna at his feet and a body beside him and Daryl's crying like the day he lost her.

For the longest time Aaron doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Just sits there with a man crying beside him, hands too weak in his lap to wipe the mucus dribbling into his mouth. Daryl's sob are almost silent how deep they are, how much they hurt; and when the heaving finally abates it's replaced by a shiver that won't stop, that wracks down to his bones, bumps him against the man beside him.

“She was so much more'n me,” Daryl whispers through his chattering teeth. “More'n all the rest of this shit world put together. And it was my fuckin' fault, too.”

“Daryl—“

“She'd say it wasn't, ya know; say I'm stupid for thinkin' it, prob'ly... prob'ly that she don't blame me—“ Daryl sniffs loudly, nearly chokes on the spit and mucus at the back of his throat, feels Aaron's hand finally come to press on his back and he swears he feels her cheek rest beside it, “Say I ought'a be _happy_ , like, like I know what that feels like when I ain't with her cause that's the only time I ever felt like that, and if that ain't happy I dunno—and she was happy too. I think she was. I think I made her that way, and we could'a made it, if it weren't for—and I can't put it away, I can't fuckin' put her away cause she's everythin' I—all I am's some redneck bitch, and she'd say nah, say some shit bout how I'm fuckin' worth more'n that but I _ain't_ —“

“Daryl.”

And then there's a hand on his cheek, turning him, moving his pliant body like it's gone boneless, and maybe it has; cause when Aaron frames his face with his hands and swipes at the circles under his eyes and leans in to press his lips to his, he swears he feels his skeleton fall out and curl up on the floor.

It only lasts a few moments, and then it's done; he's pulling away and Daryl's blinking at him, shocked out of his tears, empty but for the tremors running through his knees.

Aaron looks at him a few moments, hands still on his face, thumbs pressed softly beneath his eyes; and then he smiles; reaches around Daryl and pulls the rag from his pocket. Daryl sits limp as a child as Aaron cleans up his face, wipes gently beneath his nose and through his whiskers. When he finishes he puts the rag on the ground beside them and puts his hands on Daryl's shoulders, against his vest, tightening his fingers as if testing its strength.

“You _are_ worth more than that, Daryl,” he says. Daryl opens his mouth to protest, but Aaron shakes his head. He quiets. “You are worth more,” he repeats, “because I guarantee that you were the world to her too. And she doesn't sound like the kind of woman who'd be wrong about this sort of thing.”

Daryl snorts softly, looking at his lap. “Nah. Beth got it. Got me.”

“Then maybe it's time to start believing her.” Daryl looks up through his bangs; Aaron squeezes his shoulders. “You can't put value to a human life, Daryl; no one's worth more than anyone else. All you can do is be worth it to one person. Whether they're with you or not. That's all you need.”

They sit like that for a long time; Aaron with his hands on Daryl's shoulders, Daryl chewing his lip as he looks into the night. The shudders that wracked his body have finally quieted and for the first time he feels like he won't break beneath the aftershocks.

“You gonna tell Eric you kissed me?” he asks.

Aaron laughs, and the sound is so startling that Daryl's lips twitch alongside.

“Daryl, Eric said I should give you a _blow job_ if I thought it would help. I told him I didn’t think you'd appreciate that too much.”

“No offense,” Daryl mumbles.

“None taken.” Aaron squeezes Daryl's shoulders one more time, then sits back, wincing. “Well, I for one am exhausted. We have a big day tomorrow, finding these two you've been tracking. Want to call it a night?”

“Yeah.”

For once, Daryl lets Aaron take the job of double checking their perimeter. He doesn't think his legs could hold him if he tried to stand, so he crawls; banks the fire, gets their shit together in case they have to run. Thinks about the twigs beneath his knees and the way the world’s failed both of them.

By the time Aaron gets back he's wrapped in his bedroll, on his back as the stars wheel above. He looks once at the man before turning back to the night, flushing a little when he realizes how much he’s let this man see of him. There’s discomfort, but the mortification doesn’t come as it should. It’s more peaceful than that. He thinks Beth would be proud.

He grunts when something lands on his chest; he glances up to see Aaron grinning.

“Look what I found.”

Daryl looks, taking the object in his fingers and holding it to the light.

A rabbit's foot. A lucky rabbit's foot. Son of a bitch.

“Gotta have faith, Daryl,” Aaron says. “You gotta have faith.”


End file.
